


Grief, Written on Skin

by Mireille



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-30
Updated: 2006-10-30
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: "Oh. It's you," Giles says, which is as effusive a welcome as Wesley has expected. "Well, you may as well come in."In the aftermath of Buffy S5, Wesley pays Giles a visit.





	Grief, Written on Skin

The first thing Giles is going to ask him is what he's doing here, Wesley's certain. It's a reasonable and logical question, and he only wishes he knew the answer. 

He could tell him what he told Charles and Cordelia: that only another Watcher could possibly understand Giles' loss, and despite his own state of disgrace, he considers it unlikely any other Watcher would bother. 

He could tell him what he's telling himself, that Angel has efficiently and effectively rebuffed all attempts at sympathy by removing himself from Los Angeles. This is displacement activity, something to do in the face of his inability to do anything for Angel. 

Or he could be honest, and admit that he doesn't know why he's here. 

To his surprise, though, when the door opens to reveal Giles--blinking at the bright summer sunlight--he doesn't ask at all. "Oh. It's you," he says, which is as effusive a welcome as Wesley has expected. "Well, you may as well come in." He sounds tired and sharp-edged and impatient, but not unusually hostile, and Wesley follows him into the apartment. 

The room is dim--blinds closed and only one lamp on--and it takes Wesley's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. "It's cooler this way," Giles says by way of explanation, but not before Wesley notices the glass sitting on the end table, ice melting into the last few milliliters of amber. Hangover, or simply brooding? he wonders, but doesn’t ask. 

Brooding, he decides, because Giles is opening the curtains and clearing the newspapers off the sofa; it seems an unwelcome guest is still a guest. 

And he is unwelcome, he thinks. Giles is watching him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, and Wesley finds himself slipping back into old patterns, voice brittle to hide his uncertainty as he says, "I came to see if you needed anything." 

Giles looks up at him then, and Wesley realizes how very meaningless the words are. What Giles _needs_ is for his Slayer to be alive, and Wesley should know that better than anyone. It occurs to him, not for the first time in the past two years, how very morbid the position of Watcher is. Giles has been in Sunnydale for five years, waiting for this girl to die and trying to stave off that inevitable moment. 

Not for the first time, Wesley feels a visceral sort of relief that this is no longer his destiny. 

"You might have rung first," Giles says, and despite the situation, there's something immensely comforting in the familiar wording. Everyone else in his life would say, "You could have called." 

Giles has only the smallest part in Wesley's life, and yet his voice eases Wesley's homesickness, just a fraction. 

"I was passing through," he lies, turning to go. "I won't waste any more of your time."

A hand on his arm stops him. "At least have a cup of tea," Giles says, and Wesley revises "unwelcome" to merely "unexpected."

***

When Wesley was four, his father went away; over the next few months, he returned only once, with a strange girl in tow, tall and olive-skinned and silent. When his father came back home for good, he was alone, and he never spoke of the girl again.

Wesley was eighteen before he knew her name had been Rhea, and she had been a Slayer for one hundred and three days. On the fourth of those days, her Watcher had been injured--seriously and, in the end, fatally--and Wesley's father had taken his place. 

Wesley has seen the way a Watcher--a solid, Council-trained, respectable Watcher--mourns for his Slayer. Rupert--formality evaporated at about the same time the tea turned to Scotch--is not, by Council standards, either solid or respectable.

This is no pale, ritualized façade of mourning; this is grief, silent and strong and bitter, and the only thing Wesley can find to compare it to is the way Angel's face turned to stone as Willow told the story of how Buffy died. He remembers things Cordelia has told him about Angelus, and doesn’t think Rupert would be flattered by the comparison. 

Rupert suggests a game of chess, and Wesley, recognizing a man desperate for distraction from his own thoughts, agrees. 

They're only halfway through the first match before Rupert starts talking. Wesley can't do anything but listen, but he can do that, at least, can nod and make appropriate sounds and _not_ let himself say anything formulaic and meaningless, no matter how easy it would be. 

Coming here may have been displacement, but he's here now, and he means to do this properly. 

He listens to the story again, Rupert's version drier and more linear than Willow's. He'd have written it down already, Wesley thinks, so those ghouls in London can keep the records up-to-date. He's rehearsed this, stripped every ounce of emotion from it and made it a flat, logical account of the death of yet another Slayer. 

Wesley doesn't interrupt, doesn't react to the story itself, although there are some portions that sound too linear, too carefully worded--the same events that were the most garbled in Willow's teary rendition. It isn't his job to ferret out the truth, though, and so he accepts the story as told. 

When Rupert's done, Wesley finally lets himself fall back on ritual. "I'm so sorry," he says quietly. "She was... exceptional." Frustrating, infuriating, undisciplined and disrespectful, all the things that drove him nearly mad during the months he spent in Sunnydale, but no amount of irritation can change that. She was exceptional, and Rupert is grieving, and Wesley, despite everything, is quite sincerely sorry. 

"Thank you." Rupert seems to believe his sincerity, and Wesley relaxes a bit. He was afraid, when he first arrived, that he wouldn't be able to escape the man he'd been the last time he was here, that simply being in Sunnydale would impose those habits on him again no matter what the past two years had done to change him. 

But he's saying the right things to Rupert, and that reassures him. 

The chess game is apparently forgotten; Rupert gets up, refilling his glass and Wesley's before going over to sit in a chair, sipping his drink. 

And finally, he asks, "Why are you here? I'm not objecting, mind you, but I _am_ curious." 

"I wanted to see if you needed anything," he says, and finally hears the truth echoing behind it: _I wanted to see if you needed me._ Now he lets himself remember the time he spent in Sunnydale, the looks and accidental touches that he'd tried to resolve into something neat and simple. Tried to pretend they wouldn't have meant something, if circumstances were different. 

"Such as?" Circumstances are different now, and Rupert's voice, while still weary, is laced with amusement. 

This is the wrong time to misstep, but Wesley has to say _something_. "Anything," he repeats, getting up and going to stand next to the chair. 

It's the right answer; Rupert looks up, reaching for him. Wesley lets himself be pulled down, half on Rupert's lap and half on the arm of the chair, while Rupert tugs him down for a kiss, arms sliding around Wesley's waist. 

There's no grace in it, and very little sweetness; only need. Wesley doesn’t care, too lost in the crush of Rupert's mouth on his. 

This is why he came here, Wesley thinks, and doesn't let himself wonder why this is happening.

***

"I could be using you," Rupert says, lifting head briefly from where he'd been exploring Wesley's collarbone with his lips.

"Does that mean you want to stop?" Wesley says, and is gratified that Rupert's mouth returns to his skin. 

He's not a fool; he already knows that he may only be a distraction from Rupert's grief. He's simply decided that it doesn't matter. This is what he wants to do, and it isn't as though Rupert is stealing him away from anything more worthwhile. 

He could be back in Los Angeles: leaving greasy bags from the nearest _taquería_ outside Fred's door; listening to Cordelia complain about the lack of paying clients; playing Risk with Charles, if Charles hasn't decided that he's too ruthless to play against. Or he could be here, hands sliding over the skin of Rupert's back, feeling the tight muscles relax a bit under Wesley's touch. 

There are scars beneath his fingertips, and one day, if he has the chance, he'll ask the stories behind each of them. 

Right now, it's enough to feel them, to be someone Rupert doesn't have to explain things to, to invent excuses and automobile accidents and dog-bites to deflect the questions that most people aren't capable of hearing the answers to. 

He feels the drag of Rupert's lips across his chest, down to his stomach, and he feels himself tensing, his body still expecting the bullet wound to hurt. Rupert stops, looking up at him quizzically, and Wesley shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says, and one day, if he has the chance, he'll tell the stories behind his own scars. 

Then Rupert moves farther down still, and Wesley stops thinking about stories he might tell, and concentrates instead on the feeling of warm breath on his skin; on the wet heat of Rupert's mouth as he sucked in first one of Wesley's balls, then the other; on the vibration of Rupert's satisfied murmur when Wesley groans.

He's hard now, cock rising against his belly, and Rupert's fingers along his shaft feel possessive. Wesley closes his eyes, not wanting to see any flicker of expression that might contradict that. He might not be a fool, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the fantasy. 

His hands twist in the sheets, rumpled before they even reached the bed, and his thighs tense with the effort of control, even as Rupert's hands skim down his hips and down to his legs, stroking and soothing and, finally, holding him down as Rupert's mouth closes on his cock. 

Wesley moans again, back arching and hips lifting fractionally off the bed; he doesn't realize until Rupert's fingers dig into his hips, pushing him back down, that he'd been angling for that all along. Waking up with a fresh crop of bruises is nothing new to him, but it's been a long time since they've come from anything but work. 

Rupert's tongue works against the underside of his cock, and Wesley bites his lip, not knowing how thin the walls are here and remembering the looks his neighbors gave him after the first night Virginia spent with him. 

Then Rupert begins to suck, swallowing Wesley's cock deep, and Wesley forgets all about his good intentions, crying out as one hand comes up to tangle in Rupert's hair. Rupert's hands are still tight on his hips, and the thought flits through Wesley's mind that Rupert is holding him down so that Wesley can't disappear. 

Rupert finally lets go of Wesley's left hip, his hand curling around Wesley's cock, working in fast strokes that match the way Rupert's lips and tongue slide over his cock. It's too much, too fast, and Wesley opens his mouth to protest. Rupert doesn't give him a chance, though, and the protest blurs into cries of pleasure as he comes, cock still deep in Rupert's mouth. 

Rupert finally pulls away, licking his lips and giving Wesley a definitely self-satisfied smile. 

"If you're using me," Wesley says when he gets his breath back, "how do I get you to carry on doing it?" 

Rupert only smiles, leaning down to kiss him; Wesley tastes himself on Rupert's tongue when he kisses back. 

For a few minutes, that connection is all they need, mouth on mouth and arms wrapped around one another, but finally, Rupert trails a hand down Wesley's back, stopping just short of the cleft between his buttocks. "I'd like to fuck you," he murmurs against Wesley's cheek, and Wesley moans his agreement. 

He dimly recalls a time when he thought Rupert was reckless; he longs for that time now, while it seems to take hours for Rupert to find lube and a condom; weeks before he's got two fingers inside Wesley, simultaneously preparing him and driving him mad; an eternity before Wesley is on his knees, weight resting on his forearms as Rupert--slowly, still slowly--thrusts into him. 

Wesley stays still for a moment, breathing in and out until his body is used to the intrusion, and then he growls, "Get on with it." 

Rupert laughs; Wesley can feel it as well as hear it, and he pushes greedily backward against Rupert's cock.

It may have taken forever for Rupert to get here, but now it seems as though it's all over too quickly. Rupert's hands grip his hips again, holding Wesley in place as he thrusts in, hard and deep, until he groans, collapsing onto Wesley's back for a moment before he rolls away, getting rid of the condom before returning to Wesley's side. 

Wesley thinks, for a moment, watching Rupert's face, that this may be what allows him to break down at last and give voice to his grief, but when they're lying next to one another and Wesley kisses his cheek, he doesn’t taste tears on his skin. 

He lies awake for a while, hand sliding over his hip, where Rupert's finger-marks are, he knows, already purpling under his skin, as tangible a mark of Rupert's mourning as any tears.

***

In the morning, Wesley half expects awkwardness, and is pleased when instead, he gets a lingering kiss and an apology for taking all the hot water.

"There's nothing in the house," Rupert explains, "and I thought I'd nip out while you were still in bed." Again, Wesley luxuriates in the familiarity of the phrasing; he hadn't realized until yesterday how much he longed to hear people speaking the way that will always sound "correct" to him. He'd say as much to Rupert, but Rupert may think this was an attempt to cure homesickness, and he doesn't want to explain. 

He lets another kiss serve as his agreement and then closes his eyes again, dozing for a few minutes until he judges that Rupert's hot-water heater has had the opportunity to recover. 

It isn't until he comes out of the shower, wearing a t-shirt and track pants that Rupert had left out for him, that the atmosphere seems to change; Rupert silently hands him a plate of egg and bacon before sitting down to his own breakfast, pushing the food around his plate idly rather than eating it. 

Wesley knows second thoughts when he sees them, and he decides that he'll change back into his own clothing after breakfast so as not to have to send these back. 

He'd known what he was doing yesterday, and he can't bring himself to regret it, or even to ask Rupert what went wrong. He can't see how conducting a post mortem on the past twenty-four hours would serve any purpose at all other than to increase the tension between them, and he'd prefer to remain on these new, friendlier terms. 

He simply eats his breakfast, because leaving beforehand would undermine what he's been telling himself all along: that this is, overall, relatively unimportant, merely the offer and acceptance of comfort. 

He's swallowing the last drops of coffee before Rupert speaks, and when he does, it's not at all what Wesley's been expecting. "I wasn't honest with you yesterday."

Wesley sets his cup down, looking up. "In what way?"

Rupert gives him a tight smile. "I'm not who you think I am."

For a moment, Wesley thinks of shape-shifters, alternate dimensions, illusion spells; then he realizes that the mundane sense of the phrase is far more likely, even for them. He gives Rupert a thin smile. "Who are you, then?" He's genuinely curious about the answer, he realizes, and perhaps he _is_ going to be able to remain detached after all. 

At first, the answer seems like a non sequitur. "I killed a man."

There's a blue folder in Rupert's Council files--blue, meaning only the head of the Council has the authority to open it. Quentin Travers showed it to Wesley before he came to Sunnydale, so that he would know what he was up against, and at the time, Wesley had been properly appalled. 

He's about to mention that folder when he realizes Rupert may not even know that it's there; the information in it was gathered without his knowledge. "Sometimes innocents die," Wesley says. Sometimes they're sent to die because their leader doesn't see a better choice, he thinks, and smells the smoke of the campfires in Pylea. 

"He didn't _die_ ," Rupert snaps. "I told you, didn't I, about how Glory--Glorificus--had a human host?" 

Wesley nods, and wonders how Rupert lasted five years as Buffy's Watcher if he's this troubled by the death of a single bystander. 

"As long as he lived, there was a chance Glory might find a way back to this dimension," Rupert says. "He was injured, but he'd have survived if we got him to hospital, and I knew that couldn't be allowed to happen." His voice is quiet, but he doesn't look away from Wesley. "I couldn't ask Buffy to do it, not this, even if she hadn't had more important things to do. So I smothered him." Now it's his turn to smile, tight and cold. "And before you ask, yes, I'd do it again." 

"Of course you would," Wesley says simply, and then finds himself telling Rupert about Pylea, about sacrificing innocents and sending Angel on what he believed at the time was a suicide mission. 

"And before you ask," he concludes, mimicking Rupert's phrasing, "yes, I'd do it again." 

Rupert gives him a second smile, this one warmer. "Of course you would," he says, and Wesley is left with the feeling that they've reached an agreement about more than battle strategies.

***

The fifth day Wesley is in Sunnydale, Cordelia pages him.

He doesn't have to hurry back, she says when he calls; Gunn has everything under control. There's a note in her voice that suggests exactly what she thinks about Gunn's idea of "having things under control," and when he hangs up the phone, he tells Rupert he has to go back to Los Angeles, for a while, at least. 

"There are some things I need to take care of here," Rupert says. "I want to check in on Dawn--" Wesley remembers a small girl, all knees and elbows and long, straight hair, stepping down hard on his instep and calling him a creep--"but I was thinking of leaving town for a few days after that."

"If you're passing through Los Angeles--" Wesley begins, and then shakes his head. He's given Rupert enough of a chance to tell him this all ends here, and he hasn't done it yet. "Let me know when you'll be there," he says, and is ever so slightly relieved when Rupert nods. 

Before he leaves town, Rupert takes him to the place where Buffy is buried. Wesley has never been comfortable with this sort of ritual, but he stands at Rupert's side for a moment, head lowered. 

Then he steps back, feeling as though he's intruding on something that he's never managed to fully comprehend. He isn't a Watcher, and Rupert is, and neither of those things depends even slightly on who employs them. 

He doesn't realize Rupert's left the graveside until he feels a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," Rupert murmurs, and Wesley shakes his head. 

"I wanted to come," he says. He wants to pay his respects, of course, but he's also finding he doesn't like the thought of Rupert standing here alone. Not while Wesley's in Sunnydale. 

He considers, just for a moment, telling Cordelia to call him again when she's had a vision, or when they have more clients than Gunn thinks he can handle. He can stay in Sunnydale for a few days or weeks more. There are things he can do here, he's certain, even beyond lying in bed and tracing the lines that grief and loss have etched into Rupert's face. 

But Cordelia and Gunn will have nearly driven one another mad by now, and perhaps Fred has let herself be coaxed out of her bedroom, and Wesley should be there to make certain the agency's running smoothly even in the absence of its namesake. 

Besides, Rupert will be in Los Angeles in a few days, and Wesley wants to see Rupert in _his_ city, the first place where he's truly felt at home. 

A small voice in the back of his mind suggests that out of the shadow of Buffy's headstone, Rupert won't need him quite as fiercely as he has the past few days, but Wesley slips his hand into Rupert's on the walk back to Rupert's car, and the voice falls silent.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


End file.
